


Before

by Roseandau



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, First Meetings, Gen, Kid Moriarty, Pre-Slash, Teen Moriarty, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roseandau/pseuds/Roseandau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every fairy tale needs a beginning – this is Jim’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before

* * *

“It wasn’t the bad things that happened to you that made you you. You always were”

-          A Softer World, #911

* * *

 

Before the camp, and the Westwood and the poolside ultimatums -

Before the semtex and the guns, and lovely, sweet Molly -

Before _Sherlock_ and his carefully hidden, but gorgeously vulnerable heart -

Before roof-top suicide pacts -

Before Jim Moriarty -

Before all that, there was just James:  A delicate boy from Dublin, with big brown eyes and a grin like razor wire.

* * *

 

James has always been small for his age. It isn't his fault he sometimes has to compensate with a little extra savagery.

But he’s a good boy; he is kind to his mother. He is top of his class, and always brushes his teeth before bed without being asked to.  And he always tries very, very hard to make his mother proud. He tries to impress her with secrets, the ones strangers always keep hidden deep under their skin. He likes the sound of her laugh when he’s the reason for it.

But sometimes if the secrets are particularly unsavoury - like when the neighbour’s teenage daughter gets pregnant, not with her boyfriend’s baby but with her father’s – James’s mother reminds him some secrets are secrets for a reasons, and it's nicest to keep those ones close to his heart.

And even though he has a hard time understanding the difference, he nods anyway, and his mother awards him his favourite smile. The indulgent, slow one, like honey dripping off the tip of a spoon. 

And even though she sometimes has to remind James now and again to be kind because he’s forgotten, she never once calls him a monster. Not even when the teachers and the doctors whisper that he might be.

Not even when the school calls because James has stabbed a freshly sharpened pencil right through the palm of his classmate because he wanted to know what it felt like.  Not when she discovered the small collection of birds James kept under his bed, half-gutted because he’d been curious and bored.

No, his mother calls him clever (too clever for his own good), and she calls him unique. She tells him he will be great one day.  And sometimes when James gets bored and does a _bad thing,_ she asks him to do better.  But she never, ever calls him a monster.

She is a beautiful woman, James’s mother. She’s like lace, and if you ask him if he loves her, he will tell you without hesitation that he does, more than anything.

James will always be kind for his mother, even when being kind is hard because everyone is so terribly, awfully _stupid_ and James has always been an impatient, impulsive boy.

But then James’s mother dies, and he has no one to remind him that being kind is an important thing to be. His mother isn't there to reward his efforts with kisses on his forehead, and whispers of “That’s a good lad, my clever Jimmy boy.”  Her proud words and recognition that fill James hot and full with superiority are all gone.

It takes them eight days before they find the body, with little James curled up against her side. In that time, James hasn’t done a single chore, and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, not once.

And when Carl Powers tells him he stinks, he also doesn’t use his words like his mother always told him to.

No, he kills stupid Carl Powers instead.

* * *

 

James doesn’t like the new foster home, not one bit. It’s cluttered and smells sour like old smoke and James knows his foster mother is having an affair with one of his foster brothers by the way her hand lingers  over his when she hands him his tea in the morning.

He is either treated like an interloper, or is he ignored completely. They don’t seem to care much if he minds his manners, or if he gets into terrible trouble at school. No one tells him he’s clever, even though he makes it very clear that he is.

They don’t treat him like he is of any importance at all, and James doesn’t like not being important.  

* * *

 

The first time his new brothers target him, it’s vicious. They kick and they punch, and they take his clothes right off him. They lock him outside in cold and in the dark where no one discovers him until morning. When they do, he is naked and there is blood in his teeth, but still, he’s smiling. They’ve seen him, at last.

The second time, James is faster. And even though there’s a bruise quickly forming, hot and ugly, under his eye, when James locks himself in the bathroom and inspects the blood under his nails, he grins. It isn’t his. He’s shown growth, and surely that’s worth something

James knows there will be a third time and when it comes, he intends to win.  They’ll be so terribly impressed with him when he does.  So when the care worker points at the bruise and asks if there’s anything he’d like to tell her, James smiles real big and says no. He tells her everything is perfect. It’s perfect, perfect, _perfect_.  

And then the day comes, and James’s older brother goes after his sketch book. He’s quick when he snatches it from James’s hands, and turns to make off with it. But this time, James is ready. Swift in the way that only slight people can be, he latches onto the collar of his brother’s jumper. Pivoting just right, he uses his body to yank his brother back and then down.

He’s on his back before he can blink.

James presses his boot heal into the sweet spot of his brother’s throat, just like he learned to. He holds out his hand and says, “Give it back.”

His brother’s eyes are bright and confused, and James can see him fighting so terribly, pathetically hard to figure out exactly how _that_ happened. He does not, however, make any move to return what he’s taken, so James presses down on his throat a little harder.

His eyes narrow then, and there’s so much sudden anger in them, James knows he’s just livid. He spits in James’s direction, misses him by just an inch. He clenches his fist around the sketch book a little tighter.

James smirks and thinks he quite admires his steadfastness. What he does not admire is the stubborn stupidity  - it’s _his_ turn to win, and that’s cheating. James presses down as far as he can without causing too much damage and says, “Just like this, I can crush your trachea under my boot heal.”  James smiles and it reaches all the way up to his eyes.  “And oh gosh, will it hurt. It will make it terribly hard for you to breathe, you know.  You might even lose consciousness.”

“Sooooo,” James sings, “Either way, I’m getting my book back.”

The dread in his brother’s eyes is as pure and as perfect as sin.

It’s the most gorgeous thing James has ever seen. 

If he’s honest with himself, it’s always been the recognition that he craves most. And this – this _look_ – his brother is giving him is just the most lovely form of it. It eats up his entire face. He’s grey, and sweating, and shaking like his entire nervous system is dancing just for James.  The rush is like a fever, and he feels hot and tingly all over.

Oh, he thinks, this is beautiful, it’s poetry.

All at once James knows -fear is as unavoidable as a bullet, and will not be ignored. It will claw its way up your spine, and then swallow you whole. It will _never_ let you forget.

Praise is always so fleeting. 

When he finally surrenders the book back over, his brother’s hands are clammy and fumbling.

James tells him thank you, and lifts his boot from his neck.

“A few words of advice for the future, though,” James says, smiling down at him. “Never pick a fight a you’re not a hundred percent certain you can win. And never, ever underestimate anyone.”

His brother blinks stupidly up at him, and James thinks he might just like him. He‘s done so much for James after all, and one day, they might even be friends.

This thought does not stop James from kicking him square in the face before he goes, though. Because as much as he’d like them to be friends, James has glimpsed the look in a man’s eyes when he thinks he’s seen the devil. He’ seen that look directed right at himself, and James likes that so much better.

* * *

 

As punishment, James is locked in his room for four days and is only ever allowed out to use the toilet. Once they do let him go, all of his brothers avoid him.

It’s not like before though, because James knows he will never be unimportant again. All he has to do is look directly into his eldest brother’s eyes as he slowly, thoroughly cuts up his dinner into little, bleeding bits to know that he is seen.

But still, he has a lot of free time and James becomes very good at using computers. He studies politics, and historical subversive strategies.

He learns 13 ways to skin a man using only common household tools.

                                                                                                                                                             

* * *

 

When James is 18 he moves to London. He changes his name to Jim Moriarty and promises his mother’s ghost that one day, the mere whisper of his name on the wind will strike fear deep into the hearts of men.

And oh, how he swears the fear of the name will be nothing in comparison to the fear of the man himself.

* * *

 

The first connection Jim makes is a man by the name of Crawley. He’s fat and stupid and he stinks constantly of sweet cigars. He spits when he talks, and Jim loathes him instantly.

But in this part of town, Crawley has more power than God, and Jim needs him.

One day, Jim knows, he won’t need anybody, and when that day comes he will pay someone handsomely to put a messy bullet right between Crawley’s eyes. He’ll pay extra if they manage to paint the walls with the back of his head, Pollock style.

Maybe Jim will be able to organize a way to force Crawley’s family to watch, because he thinks he’d like that very much.

But in the meantime, Crawley knows a lot of people that Jim would also like to know. He owns a laundry mat chain that is really a front for a collection of brothels, and Jim needs access to the revenue. All he has is his refurbished laptop, and three changes of clothes shoved into a tattered, faded rucksack.

He manipulates and shams his way into a different bed every night, if only for a place to sleep after.

Jim charms. He uses his intelligence like a cheap parlour trick, and impresses Crawley with the sordid details of their waitress’s romantic life over expensive whiskey. Jim keeps smiling, and Crawley keeps drinking.

Red in the face and neck, Crawley slaps Jim hard on the back, and guffaws, “You’re all right, lad. I imagine that little trick of yours comes in handy now and again.”

What Jim is imagining is gouging out Crawley’s eye with one of the bright, pointed stir sticks. What he is wondering is what noise it will make when he wedges the plastic under the orb, and pops it right out of Crawley’s stupid fucking head.  What he says is, “Now and again, yes.”  And when he does, he smiles, making sure to show all of his teeth.

In the end, Jim is able convince Crawley that he needs him. He tells Crawley that information is power, and Jimmy here can access all the information he could ever want with as much as quick glance at a shirt cuff.

 Jim becomes a peddler of secrets and Crawley pays him handsomely for it. But he is also becomes an investor of sorts and by the time two years passes, Jim’s got his fingers in a lot of pies, but still not much else to show for it.

In April, Jim comes up short on his rent for the second time, and his landlord tells him calmly that he has no qualms about throwing him out onto the pavement.

* * *

 

When he goes to visit him at his office, Crawley is in a meeting with a man he had called Moran.  He’s a tall, fair-haired man, with posture like a razor blade. He wears  his sunglasses inside, which Jim thinks is funny, because Crawley is nothing if not cheap and the bulbs in his office are low wattage and economical.

“I’m busy,” Crawley snaps. “What could you possibly want _now_.”

Jim ignores him, and cocks his head at the Moran instead. He studies.

Ex-military –dishonourable discharge if he’s dealing with the likes of Crawley.  His posture whispers to Jim that this is not the type of man who would flinch at the warm, wet spray of blood. The vein in his neck tells Jim that he even likes it. Tall, and well-muscled but not bulking. He’s got an assassin’s build, and elegant sniper’s hands.

“Moriarty – speak up, or get out. I’m in a meeting.”

Jim scowls and turns back to Crawley. “I need another advance,” he bites out.

“Another advance?” Crawley barks out a laugh. “You’re having me on, Moriarty. Or at least you better be, because you haven’t even delivered on your last one. I’ve got nothing from you in months.”

And it’s true, he hasn’t. Because Jim’s so close now he can taste blood in his mouth, and he’s keeping his best intel all to himself.  He plans to start with bang, after all

Crawley leans forward across his desk, and lifts his brow. “No? Then get the fuck out,” he spits, “and don’t you dare come back until you have something – you’re useless to me otherwise.”

Crawley dismisses him with a half-wave and looks back to Moran.  Jim wants nothing – _nothing_ – more than to gnaw that fat, flippant hand off at the wrist, but he grins like a maniac as he leaves.

* * *

 

On his way back to his flat, something occurs to him.

The look Crawley gave Moran when he dismissed him wasn’t a look at all. It was consideration.

* * *

 

There is a new high-rise directly across the road from his flat, and the top three levels, Jim knows, are still under construction.

When the sun sets behind the horizon, and night settles in, Jim takes the lift all the way up to the top.

* * *

 

Moran shows up at exactly 11 PM, just as Jim had known that he would.

He was always been so very good at hide and go seek, so when Moran steps off the lift, shouldering a big, black canvas bag, he doesn’t even notice Jim’s there at all.

He settles at one of the north facing windows - one that faces Jim’s flat directly, but keeps Moran mostly in shadow.  It takes him no time, it seems, to assemble his sniper rifle, but then Jim doesn’t know terribly much about these things. He’s always been a much more hands on man, himself.

The stiff lines of his shoulders are gorgeous as he leans in, presses an eye to the site and aims what is sure to be Jim’s bedroom window.

Jim takes a step forward, with his hands in his pockets, and the quiet click of his shoe heel on the unfinished flooring is just enough.  Moran whips around, as quick and as vicious as a viper. He shifts, re-aims right at Jim’s head, and if he looks up, he can make out the little red glow the scope makes reflecting off the skin on his forehead.

Jim is impressed, really he is.

“Hello,” Jim says.

“What the fuck?” Moran says.

“Jim Moriarty - Hi! How very nice to officially meet you. “ Jim takes his hand out from his pocket, holds it out for Moran to shake.

Moran doesn’t.

“I know who you fucking are, what I’m asking is what the fuck you think you’re doing.”

Jim smiles, all teeth. “I’m going to try to convince you not to kill me.”

“You cannot be serious, mate.”

Moran is surprised, Jim knows. He knows because Jim knows everything, but to anyone else Moran hasn’t shifted an inch and his posture betrays nothing.  Jim could just eat him up, he’s so perfect. He thinks he might be in love.

“I mean, you do realize you have a big fucking sniper rifle pointed at your head. How did you think you were going to work that one out?”

“Well,” Jim sings, and he takes a step closer. “I was going to ask if you’d perhaps like to work for me instead. Mind you, we’d have to have to work on your espionage game. It’s a little weak.”

Moran lowers his gun slowly, his rifle site trailing a red glow down the middle of Jim’s body until it’s at his feet.  He stares for a moment, blinks. And then he laughs and laughs.

Jim bites his lip and smiles wicked.

His full name is Sebastian Moran, and Jim thinks he’s just the most wonderful thing.  Sebastian thinks he’s a little insane, but that’s okay. It is.

* * *

 

When Sebastian’s bullet goes right through Crawley’s forehead, it’s a starburst of gore just like Jim always wanted. This, Jim thinks, is the start of a beautiful partnership.

* * *

 

In just over half of a decade, Jim has more money than God and no one – _no one_ – says the name Moriarty without the taste of blood in their mouth, and the flutter of terror in their heart.

-30-


End file.
